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Neobotanist Aug 12
eating figs
eating ***
eating flesh

i swim through my mother's veins
and peel back layers,
distinctly feminine.

i see me.
i feel me.
i taste me.

we hold delicate
yet strong and vibrant lovers
in our mouths,
inflated candy eggs—cosmic nectar.

foolishly gazing at our sordid massacres:
flesh upon flesh
seed upon fleshy seed

visions of nightquests
sing-songing liquidly

i vanish into wormholes,
fiery transformations,
and bitter leaves,
which weep through silver pores.

feverishly, we pick apart the stems,
dropping them away.
hurry, hurry!
we're so impatient to get these figs
into our mouths.

heads crane forward
and tongues ****** first.
hands follow, fingers last.
crush down once, thrice
on earth maternal—
it's not juice, it's cream.

siddhis speculatively come forward
and burn triangle patterns behind our eyelids.
she is freed again from past recollections,
elegantly fighting off disease—cellularly—while drumming solos,
gnashing figs,
and caressing twigs with toes.

i invite you to breathe me in—
soft, solid air,
stale with anticipation
but honey-lemon sweet,
and empty besides.

we pour sweet broths into banana-leaf cups
and drink beetles out of sugarcones,
traces of ectoplasm dribbling down our chins,
violetly forgetting the echoes of
peppermint vapors,
and nourishing our bellies
with heavy, pregnant plant mothers.

i long for excess,
and i can never get enough.
besides,
it is the summer of figs,
and we cry openly
at the beads of sweat
forever forming on glassy surfaces.

i taste-touch with my fingers
and feel-taste with my tongue,
and still i feel that we aren't close enough,
so i invite it to enter me and become me,
and now
i am fig.

it's as if the cilia-seeds
and tender pink spots
expect the pressure.

it's true:
we expect this solid, gravitational pressure
and they rip off wings,
just to bathe in our nectar.

she hadn't known true ecstasy
until this violation of figs,
until her madness imploded secretly
like their demure insides,
and all she could think about
was jelly pulp and pale achenes.

so saccharine, you say,
wiping your mouth with a sticky hand,
and wiping your hand on stiff denim,
but really there's even more sweet to come later.

green-plump
violet-plump
pink-pulp
swallow

i hear it before my ears do.
i see it before my eyes do.

i swimmingly tesselate
and wade through the liquid air,
particles dissolving around me.

there's some give,
and i'm able, you see,
to be here in this palace of
pent-up pleasures and lastly,
comes stillness.

she weeps hatred from her body
so it doesn't seep
into her half-digested fig:
the fig of all figs.

caked with dried mud and chocolate,
we emerge
and fall off effortlessly
into angles of light.

dust rises like a prism
along pre-choreographed
provocations of smoke—
steps cascading for spirits of anjeer
to patter down
into our realm.

feed me, they say.
and so we do.

we break open the figs
with childish fingers,
tasting before offering
on little plates carved out of spoons,
melting coconut lashes and spidermilk
in the process.

the oven creaks quietly,
and raindrops lift gauzy veils
from drowsy eyelids
on sleepy mornings.

pulling waterwords
from unification,
fiery feelings die down
until they're just a glimmer—
a glimmer of softness,
with wet embers tantalizingly
dripping fireworks,
like childhood.

waves murmur something secret,
and the whispers only take 5,000 years
before they reach your ears,
yet you still startle and awaken,
sweat on the brow,
and glisten your way through,
splashing sloppily through
paper screens
to deliver messages.

iron tea kettles sit in dying ashes for far too long.

in my visions,
i saw ripe, bursting figs
hurtling across starlit skies,
blossoming beautifully
before dropping heavily and with sound.

and suddenly it was summer—
radiant, glowing summer—
with our skin dissolving upwards
in the golden heat,
sparkling dramatically
in the decaying light.

i wanted to pull something out of me
but the strings were tied to my organs.

slippery insides meant less danger,
so we tiptoed on grains of sand
and grains of rice,
and black beads,
and black beans,
and pearls,
and magnets.

we tripped through hours,
while minutes crawled to a close,
and sifted fine blue watersilk
until it exploded with mollusks.

i am a clam
and you are a gallon of fir tree sap,
delivered every wednesday,
to embellish our
fried and crispy things.

almond-shaped plumes and
majestic, purple heliochromes
blaze saturn rings coldly,
while the fruit falls apart—
first at the center—
and our gaze lingers on mother:
she is
dancing,
and dancing.
Neobotanist Jan 27
ectoplasmic, echoing

fibers vibrate delicately, glossily,
held with tension and
******* with pearls.

powders exploding casually from
plucked strings

she inspects, with milk fingers,
that night’s catch.

in sea-spun, spider silks,
there linger tiny ***** made of
star sand, composing tiny symphonies,
bellies dragging ‘cross cornfields,
scratching still silhouettes,
notes in Solfeggio:
ink-black eighth notes
sprawling softly on
measured bars.

the chorus of silent whispers
crescendos and crashes down,
splashing salty poolwater
on silk screen paper.

damply, she lets spools spill
from her cream fingers,
inspecting knots in which
cracked fragments of silver passages
flutter.

one is plucked abrasively,
and it melts into her *******,
threatening spillage from
finger creases like hot mercury.

one gleams and she tentatively,
reflexively presses it with her pointer,
prodding it before she is
breathed in in in in and
suctioned through.

what does this passage speak?

charming crickets
flaky knees rubbed

the reverberation of hums
explodes in little hearts,
windowpanes
smashing and shattering,
billions of glistening pieces
embedded in tiny lungs,
orbiting galactically
like bellicose comets.

a hair stands up
and she breathes in,
one huge breath.

honey coats her lungs,
quick as lavender,
and
the bluntness of her teeth
deny endlessly the soft,
glowing warmth spreading
through her veins like liquid gold.

cocoa in her breath and
dusty icicles in her lashes

it was a tremendously satisfying catch,
that night’s catch.
Neobotanist Sep 2020
remember when you said, the world looks so beautiful?
well, i maintained that distance but my
lashes were wet with crimson
weeping, weeping for love
i tried to paint with saffron
and burst leaves with chocolate candies

this is one of those days where you sigh sweetly
with love, because the magnitude summons
earthquakes and you’ve touched the well of
stillness, but some soul threw a pebble in there,
and now its waters turbulent, no longer
reflecting back purusha, you let air expand your
lungs, collect emotions like honey and
buzz out of your mouth, a horde of bees

you succumb to its effects, blending with
self-created thought loops that wake you in the
middle of the night. what’s that about, you
wonder. you try to recall, lamely, if in your
past you were kept wake by the flickering
lamplight of your mind, jumping from your dreams
to daylight in fractions of a second.

it never feels easier, this business of love and
adoration, despite the intellect screaming to
pull yourself together. drawers open and close.
new ideas are formed, the former abandoned.
an instant of peace is bafflingly shattered
by a sudden starburst of kaleidoscopic light,
pinwheeling dangerously. what of the
tower of cards you so meticulously built?

breathing, breathing
here you are now.

falling in love has taken on a sense of
dread, and shame. if only you were still
dumb and blind, and you could love and love
with abandon, but now all these selves
housed in your consciousness have formed opinions.
is it someone external, or you who you are seeking?
the infinite? what of releasing
all desires, putting an end to suffering?

just another fork in the road. just another
pebble in the well.
he penetrates you with his eyes and
suddenly it’s all you see with eyelids shut.
one godself naked and exposed to another godself.
how furious, how delightful.

if you’re so whole and complete, why so delighted
by another’s differences? why so enchanted by
a mannerism?

baby, baby, you tell your aching heart.
an exquisite feeling
always falling in love
always, always, always, always

you want to hide yourself,
you’re older now, wiser now.
you don’t want to be found out!
a fraud – a little baby animal being
who still messily falls in love

surrender, surrender
surrender, surrender
Neobotanist Sep 2020
Aiming, reaching, calling -- lost for hope and grieving,
weeping buttermilk butterflies weaving intricate paths
through dandelions and dandy lions.

I lost a piece of me that night, the night the slipper casually slipped off of my arched foot, softly falling away as though revealing a secret. Windows closed and opened, I breathed in cold air and stagnant air interchangeably.

Those tweed slacks, those worn and finger-pulled threads resting achingly forever on the chairback, as I awaited return of my brother who was lost at sea. Lost, but in some ways, found, as he escaped the drudgery of life that awaited him here. Glimpsing into the sleeve, I could still see the golden dragonfly I'd sewn in before his departure.

Nothing awaits you or me here, in this delicate moment of dark waiting. This chance seeks existence.

I hoped to become a believer, and I believed I would catch a glimpse this time, of some sort of cold, raw wintry scene. Descending into deep caverns inside my soul, I waited patiently.

Drought, emptiness, beauty. Such beauty.

I longed to touch you. I am waiting here, high on my self-created loveliness, pines dusting the brown carpet. When summer arrives, it will be a different scene. Feathers floating in some geometrically perfect spiral, catching iridescent angles in the last rays of sunlight before sunset.

These words can be documented as such. Meaningless shrapnel, adjusted commissaries. Tuning into the divine radio of thought patterns, like finding a complex piece of code hidden in machines. Provoking, provocatively. Spelling out sheer turmeric and penciling in calendars with a special fervor.

The feeling bloomed up -- quite literally, bloomed -- inside of me like a night-blooming cactus flower, and spilled out from my eyes as tantalizing light essence, traveled through the air, thick with swarming molecules, and hit you directly in the iris.

You were unprotected, vulnerable to my gaze, and visibly recoiled before succumbing to its honey-sweetness and shrinking into the pool of melodic experience. Having hunted for a feeling just moments before, I knew intuitively that the damage was irreversible, and cosmic webs spun you up rapidly. There it was --  a successful seizure by sight.

An embryo of desire -- they'd always warned me of detachment, and yet here I defiantly stood, elastic with desire, feeding the frenzy of alarms and nosediving singularly through a dream-like substance, known to the beings as space. Air and fire, astringent and procedural, organizing lifetimes of ambivalence, sprouting up from the River Ganges, defying our greatest expectations. What a gift, they screamed, laughs spilling and splashing, reverberating over the water's surface, culminating in a fiery energy that shook the earth I walked on.

Beatrice -- she stood there with her mouth open, drinking lazily the energy of the laughing souls. Happily fed, she returned to her place in the small crook of the great oak tree, playing coyly with her silver coils.

I painted green landscapes with my thumb, dropping crumbs from my mouth to form great mountains and breathing hot flames for movement. Smearing some blue into my unfinished painting, I caught the eye of a spoiled farmer who I'd often seen at cliff edges. He was waiting, but neither of us spoke.

Interrupted and no longer able to work, I bit off a handful of weeds from the earth and delivered it to the survivor, who held up his hands as he saw me approaching. I took his hands in my own and curled his fingers around the grass.

When he opened his fists, I had disappeared back to my spot near the river, and what glittered in his hands was a precious stone with which he could do whatever he liked.

An end to the misery, and end to the work. Oh delicate creatures, your worlds so pure and so stained.
Neobotanist Oct 2019
perhaps i had it all backwards,
and we are not the more evolved spirits of animals, and animals are not the more evolved spirits of plants

perhaps we are trying to become that which a plant already is:
a converter of suffering into purity, of darkness into light

just as with each in-breath, the plant takes in my suffering
and on exhale, converts it into loving oxygen,
which we drink in hungrily, yet unknowingly,

and just as each spiraling ray of sun is synthesized into pure life energy,
relinquishing the need for consumption of another self,

perhaps we too need to become more like plants,
and not the other way around.

as aspiring plant-beings,
we too can breathe in all that is
and exhale all that is to become.
Neobotanist Jul 2019
Plants and Music

Digital

Light

Vibration

Bass

Life and Growth

Divine Connection

Futuristic

Utopia

Virtual Reality

Intergalactic

You think it's great that interracial is finally accepted in the mainstream?

Wait till there is acceptance and support for interspecies.
Neobotanist Jun 2019
There definitely exists within me still
a strong, insatiable desire
to create a hauntingly beautiful piece of music
for the world.

But I am clouded over with disillusionment.
I swim through the corridors of life,
aware at least conceptually,
that there is purpose in my being here,
but unable to extricate myself from the grips of sorrow,
which has quickly morphed into an ever-present,
underlying state of low-level misery.

Awareness from my previous forays into the other side—
having once before pierced the veil—
that all is as it should be,
that there is an aching beauty to absolutely everything,
that all one needs to do is accept one’s very isness,

does not save me now.

I surrender to the feeling.
I let it swallow me.
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